To the British Association of Shooting and Conservation
Dear Sirs in charge of guns,
Kablaam, kapoow, kaboom, blap, blap, blap I bet you weren’t expecting that! That’s the sound of me having fun with my shotgun.
I’ve owned a gun for most of my life, there’s nothing quite like lining up a small helpless creature in your sights, squeezing the trigger and watching it explode in a fountain of fur and feathers. And I’m sure you boys at the Association of Shooting and Conservation know where I’m coming from when I tell you that when my wife’s out I take off all my clothes, smear myself in fox blood and just become one with my weapon.
However, the joyous days of unbridled wood-based killing are coming to an end. My GP is refusing to sign my form. He says he doesn’t know if I’m fit to bear arms and that he can’t possibly predict if I’m going to commit mass murder in the near future. I mean come on – he’s supposed to be a doctor!
I explained that I have no medical problems and only one criminal conviction (which was totally her fault, if you go jogging in the woods wearing a fur coat you’re ask for it).
So I’m writing to you good sirs to let you know about my desperate plight and to see if there’s anything you can do to help. Far be it from me to ask but perhaps you could threaten my GP with a gun?
By the way, as a token of thanks a stuffed grouse is ‘winging’ its way to your office.
Keep your powder dry and happy hunting!
Mr Strugatsky
